The Worth of a Friend
by pebbles66
Summary: A very late entry to PGF and KCS's challenge to write about the first time Holmes and Watson face trouble/hurt together.


_A/N: This is the longest thing I've written to date, and it's taken me weeks. Everyone's been so kind in reading and reviewing my shorter fics that I thought I'd be brave and post it, too. I hope you all will like it!_

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_No lapse of time or distance of place can lessen the friendship of those who are truly persuaded of each other's worth. - Unknown_

The Worth of a Friend

Dr. Watson, feeling the need to supplement his small pension, had taken a part-time position as locum at St. Bart's Hospital. Three mornings a week, he left early for hospital rounds and clinic duty and then stayed after to write up his reports. Occasionally he did some surgery in the afternoon, but usually he was back at Baker Street in time for a late luncheon. This arrangement worked out well for all parties; the hospital received the services of a very competent doctor; Dr. Watson kept his medical skills fresh, not to mention the addition to his income; and he was home in the afternoon to assist Sherlock Holmes with his cases if needed. Only one person did not see the benefit in the doctor's plan: Mrs. Hudson, who clearly did not think that the doctor's fragile health could hold up under the strain, and who fussed under her breath when Dr. Watson left those mornings. Although both the doctor and the detective had minimized her concerns, it appeared that she might have been right.

One unseasonably cold and windy day in April, luncheon and tea-time had come and gone, and Dr. Watson had still not returned from the hospital. After waiting rather impatiently for some time, Mrs. Hudson had finally sent a message to the hospital in the hands of one of the Irregulars. The answer she received did nothing to allay her concerns, and as the day wore on she become increasingly concerned, alternately watching out the front door, and pacing between the kitchen and front hall.

Mr. Holmes had also gone out early that morning, and when he returned from wherever he'd been all day, Mrs. Hudson felt compelled to speak to him of her concerns.

"Mr. Holmes, the doctor has been gone all day. You know that's not like him; he's always home for meals, and he hasn't sent any word. I'm that worried about him; he's not well, you know, and was looking peaked after the last day at _that clinic_." Mrs. Hudson wrinkled up her nose as she said those last words, as though she suddenly smelled something quite disgusting.

Holmes interrupted her rambling by holding his hand up and patting her arm soothingly. He didn't seem unduly alarmed, and his calm words served to allay her fears somewhat.

"Mrs. Hudson. I'm sure the doctor is fine. He must have been detained, or perhaps stopped to have luncheon with a friend. Possibly he's quite forgotten to send word. As for his health, he has been getting much stronger. I'm sure there is nothing to worry about," he reiterated. Holmes clearly felt that Mrs. Hudson was worrying unnecessarily, and the detective himself was completely unconcerned. Although the two flatmates had an amicable relationship, especially following the successful resolution of the Jefferson Hope case, the two men rarely interfered with each other's schedules and plans, preferring to keep themselves very much to themselves.

Mrs. Hudson subsided for the time being and went on about her work and preparations for dinner, while still listening for the doctor's step in the hall. Mr. Holmes returned to the sitting room with his newspapers and the rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. However, when it began to get dark and the doctor still had not returned or sent word by dinner time, Mrs. Hudson finally persuaded the detective that something must be wrong.

In point of fact, Holmes was beginning to worry himself. Despite the detective's words to Mrs. Hudson, Dr. Watson truly was not in the best of health, and he'd been pushing himself rather hard of late. His injuries continued to pain him, and that, coupled with frequent nightmares, served to disrupt his sleep many nights. The doctor also seemed terrified that his medical skills would deteriorate quickly if he didn't keep them up to date, and many nights he stayed up quite late reading medical journals. While his position as locum was not as demanding as a full-time post would be, he had been kept extremely busy on the days he worked. He usually returned from his half-days at the hospital quite exhausted, and those days usually culminated in an early night for him. His house-mates had gotten in the habit of tiptoeing around the house so as not to disturb his rest on those afternoons.

In addition, the doctor had now missed three meals, which was very unlike him. The doctor was very fond of Mrs. Hudson's cooking. Not that Holmes could blame him for his fondness for good food: Mrs. Hudson was an exceptionally good cook, who often made special dishes to tempt her lodgers. She took great delight in preparing their favorites, in an attempt to "fatten them up". Dr. Watson's bout with enteric fever had left him with delicate digestion, and he was still very thin. His still-healing body needed all the good food and nutrition it could get.

It was also quite out of character for the doctor to be gone so long without sending word. The doctor was nothing if not conscientious and considerate. Usually he returned exactly when he said he would, and if he was detained unavoidably he would send a telegram or message. Today there had been no word from him at all, and Mrs. Hudson's own note to the hospital had been answered with the news that the doctor had left there some time ago.

With all these things running through his mind, Sherlock Holmes acquiesced to his landlady's demands and set out just after dusk to look for his flat-mate. He determined to walk a bit first, as frequently the doctor asked his cab driver to stop some blocks away from home so that he could walk the remainder of the way for exercise. _Stubborn man_ _that he is_, thought Holmes pensively.

It was quite unseasonably cold that evening, and he wrapped his scarf more tightly around his neck and turned up the collar on his coat as he walked along Baker Street. After walking some blocks, glancing down alley-ways and side-streets, he was just contemplating retracing the doctor's steps by taking a cab to the hospital, and heading back towards Baker Street from there. He was starting towards the nearest cab-stand when suddenly his attention was riveted by a familiar figure walking ahead of him. Holmes immediately became more concerned, as the figure ahead was stumbling, limping severely, and was headed _away_ from Baker Street. _Good Lord, had the man walked all the way from St. Bart's?_

Holmes ran to catch him up, and came abreast of the doctor just as he faltered and almost fell. Holmes caught hold of him and gently led him to the doorstep of a nearby house. He pushed the doctor down onto the step and crouched next to him, noting that Watson was trembling violently. Looking into his pale face, Holmes noted the dark circles under his eyes, and the drawn, tight look of the doctor's jaw. The detective was disturbed to see the look of exhaustion and pain in his companion's eyes.

"Doctor, what has happened to you? Are you injured? Did you walk all the way from St. Bart's?" Holmes rapidly shot out the questions as he carefully looked the doctor over for signs of injuries, and noting that he seemed confused and possibly feverish.

At first Watson did not answer, not seeming even to hear, but Holmes breathed easier when he saw the doctor's eyes slowly focus on his face in recognition.

"I'm all right. I'm not hurt, just tired," Watson mumbled, speaking slowly and raising a shaking hand to his eyes. "But… I'm not sure how I got here. I've gone the wrong way, haven't I? I must have gotten turned around, somehow, after I left the hospital …" he trailed off, leaning his head back exhaustedly against the wall of the house.

"My dear fellow," responded Holmes. "What were you thinking? It's much too far for you to walk with your injuries, and especially on such a cold night. You've clearly strained your leg. Why in heaven's name didn't you take a cab?" Holmes knew he was speaking more openly than was usual between the two new flat-mates, but he felt a little justified in chiding the doctor, considering the long day of worry Mrs. Hudson, and he, had endured.

"I needed to walk … to clear my head" Watson answered softly, so quietly that Holmes had to lean closer to make out the words. "It's been a very long, difficult day." At these words, the doctor buried his face in his hands, and Holmes noted that the trembling in his limbs had increased in severity.

Instantly Holmes made the decision to hail a cab and get Watson home as quickly as possible, even though they were not actually that far from Baker Street. As luck would have it, he spied a lone hansom moving slowly down the street towards them, and he jumped to his feet and out into the street to hail it.

Returning just as quickly, Holmes extended his hand to help the doctor up, and was shocked to feel how icy his hands were. He put his arm about the shorter man's shoulders to steady him as he walked shakily to the cab. As he did so, he was struck again by how thin the doctor remained, even after three meals of Mrs. Hudson's good cooking every day. _He's running himself into the ground_, he thought. _Even when he's_ _not working, he's never still - he's walking to regain his strength, or writing in those blasted journals till all hours_. Holmes knew that Watson needed rest and quiet, and made a mental note to speak to the doctor about continuing his position at the hospital. It might be that Watson was just not healed enough to be working so hard. Instead he needed to concentrate on his own recovery.

They rode in silence back to Baker Street, Watson looking out at the passing houses with dull eyes, and Holmes surreptitiously keeping his own eye on the doctor.

They drew up outside 221b a few minutes later, and were greeted by Mrs. Hudson's worried exclamations as Holmes helped a still-trembling Watson down from the cab.

"Oh, Dr. Watson," she exclaimed. "Wherever have you been? Are you all right? I've been so worried, and you missed your luncheon and your supper, too, and I had no idea what might have happened to you. The hospital said you'd left ages ago…" Mrs. Hudson trailed off as she noted the doctor's severe limp and the trembling in his limbs as he stumbled toward the front door, still leaning heavily on Holmes. She turned worried eyes to the detective, and he nodded slightly to reassure her.

"Mrs. Hudson," he said. "Could you see to the fire in the sitting-room, and I'll just help the doctor on the stairs. Oh, and perhaps a pot of tea?" he added as the good landlady held open the door for them.

"Oh yes, sir", she answered, "and I'll just see what I have in the kitchen for a late supper, shall I?" Mrs. Hudson bustled upstairs ahead of them to stir up the fire, already cataloguing what was available in the kitchen to tempt the doctor's slight appetite.

"I'm sure that would be much appreciated, thank you, Mrs. Hudson." The detective replied, as he and the doctor started up the steps.

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Watson echoed softly, attempting a wan smile to let her know that he was not injured or ill, but only very tired. "I'm very sorry to have worried you so" he continued, and she smiled forgivingly back at him as she hurried back down the stairs.

A moment later, Watson was ensconced before a warm fire, wrapped snugly in blankets, and sipping carefully at the glass of brandy Holmes had pressed on him. His shivering had slowed, and he was regaining some color in his cheeks, but his eyes were still troubled and full of pain.

Holmes sank into his own chair, lighting his pipe, and looking over the doctor with an appraising eye. "Well, Doctor," he said. "What happened to upset you so today? I can see that you are quite exhausted, and that you have been hard-pressed in your work all day. Beyond the fact that there has been a fire which has kept you extremely busy, I am at a loss to explain your condition tonight."

Watson started a little in surprise, then chuckled mirthlessly as he realized that his clothing and countenance must have revealed these details to his companion's observant eyes. But the chuckle died away quickly as he thought back to the conflagration and its victims. He shook his head, as though to clear it enough to speak.

"Yes, there was a fire" he said softly. "Near the hospital. It was horrible, Holmes: a family was trapped in their house, and only got out at the last minute before the whole building collapsed. Three firefighters were killed when it fell in – and there were several injuries. Broken bones, severe burns. The fire brigade brought the survivors to the hospital, as well as the family." The doctor lapsed into silence for a moment, and Holmes perceived that Watson was reliving the scene in his mind. He waited patiently while Watson took another steadying drink of brandy before continuing.

"We're desperately understaffed at the moment, you know," Dr. Watson went on again, speaking just as softly. "That 'flu epidemic has affected our doctors and nurses as well as the public. There's just not enough of us to go around, and with a fire like that…" he sighed. "There wasn't enough help. The other doctor took the firefighters. That left me and one nurse for the family. The parents weren't badly hurt, just a few burns, but there were children – three little children, and I… I couldn't save them all. There was a little girl… no more than three years old… and she, she died in my arms." Watson choked out these last words, and once again buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with suppressed emotion.

Holmes closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head in sympathy as he searched for the appropriate words to comfort his distrait flat-mate.

"My dear fellow", he said finally. "I'm sure you did your best. Even the most gifted doctor cannot save every patient."

"Yes, I know" Watson responded sadly. "But it was just too much like what I saw in Afghanistan. Children slaughtered by stray bullets, villagers burned almost beyond recognition, grotesquely broken bones… Horrible injuries, families torn apart … Such suffering, screaming,… and the smell of burned hair and flesh." He swallowed hard before continuing. "That poor little girl; her eyes… And of course, burns are very painful. I had to tell her parents. It was almost more than I could bear…" he trailed off as he remembered the feel of the child's slight weight in his arms and the dimming of her eyes as she passed from life into death.

"I never thought I'd experience such horrors in London" he finished, shrugging his shoulders and instantly wincing as his persistent wounds twinged in pain. "This city is as much a war zone as Maiwand was."

Holmes again found himself at a loss for words. He knew that the doctor, that any doctor, would have seen horrible things during the war, but the true scope of these horrors had never been made clear to him before. He wondered that a man as gentle, kind, and soft-hearted as Dr. Watson had been able to come through the entire process unscathed. But today's events revealed that perhaps he had not been unscathed after all.

Mrs. Hudson interrupted their contemplative mood just then, bringing up a tray with the tea things, and a light supper she'd prepared for the doctor. Unobtrusively she set it on the table and spread out the food. She darted quick glances at the doctor as she set the dishes out, seeing that his trembling had slowed, but his eyes still looked troubled. As she left the room, her eyes found Mr. Holmes' with the silent admonition – _look after him tonight_. Holmes smiled back at her, indicating without words that he had every intention of doing so.

Unwilling to break the quiet in the room, the detective busied himself with preparing a cup of tea as he knew the doctor took it, and then as an afterthought, he poured a cup for himself as well. It might be a long night, and the caffeine would help to clear his thought processes.

Dr. Watson accepted the cup Holmes offered, and ate half of one of the sandwiches their landlady had provided. He didn't seem to want to talk further about what had happened at the hospital or during the war, and Holmes subsided into his chair before the fire, smoking reflectively and lost in his own thoughts.

The two men sat quietly for some time. There didn't seem to be any need for conversation and Holmes found himself again appreciating the doctor's simple gift of silence. Dr. Watson sat very still, leaning his head back, his eyes closed. He almost appeared to be asleep, if not for the slight trembling that persisted in his injured leg and arm. Holmes kept his eyes on his flat-mate, alert to any signs of increasing distress. It was strange to him, this concern he felt for the tired man in front of him, but he was determined to be available for the doctor, for as long as he was needed.

He looked up in surprise a few minutes later as Watson slowly got up and came to stand before him. "Thank you for coming after me tonight, Holmes" he said sincerely, holding his hand out to the detective. "I do appreciate your concern. And I'm sorry to have worried you, and Mrs. Hudson, so. Yes, I'm all right", he smiled in answer to Holmes' questioning look as they clasped hands. "Or I will be. But it's been a very long day. I'm absolutely exhausted, and I'm going to go up and try to get some sleep."

"Yes, I'm sure you could use it. Good night, Watson" his flat-mate responded, searching the doctor's face again, but seeing only fatigue there. The talk seemed to have helped him; he didn't seem as troubled as before, but he was still obviously worn to the bone, and in pain from his still-healing injuries. Holmes didn't attempt to assist the doctor as he turned away, unwilling to further damage the man's pride, but listened carefully as Dr. Watson stepped into the hall and began to mount the stairs. He didn't relax until he heard the doctor's slow footsteps safely reach his room upstairs.

Holmes sat up for a while longer, thinking about the enigma who was Dr. John Watson. What he must have witnessed, and suffered, in Afghanistan, to still be so haunted months later! He knew that the few details Watson had shared tonight were nothing compared to what he had really endured. He was struck again by the compassion and honor which characterized his flat-mate. He realized that this man had made an indelible impression upon him, and found himself desiring to know more about him. What had begun just a few months before as an interesting diversion between cases, a way to afford the rent on more comfortable lodgings, had changed to something completely different. This was something new and unfamiliar, but Holmes could see the value in this new arrangement, this new entity. There was something of worth in the doctor, and in this burgeoning relationship. When he thought back years later, Holmes realized that this was the first night that he'd begun to think of Watson as not just a fellow lodger, but as a friend.

_Thanks to Westron Wynde who PM'd me with the distance from St. Bart's to Baker Street._


End file.
